


no matter how they toss the dice

by wearealltalesintheend



Series: Queliot Week 2019 [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Queliot Week 2019
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-17
Updated: 2019-06-17
Packaged: 2020-05-13 20:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19258597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wearealltalesintheend/pseuds/wearealltalesintheend
Summary: “You don’t?” Eliot asks, sounding a little off, hoarse, and Quentin passes him his water bottle, shrugging when Eliot looks uncomprehendingly down at it. “What– okay,” He clears his throat, starts again. “So you’re over your ex, that’s good. I’m sure your father will understand.”“Yeah, I mean– yeah, he’ll get it, but he’ll worry,” Quentin runs a hand through his hair, huffing, “he’ll worry, and he’ll start asking questions and wondering– El, what if he wants to visit? He can’t come to Brakebills! I’ll have to, I don’t know. I don’t know. Pretend to show him around Yale? Is that illegal– it sounds like it’s illegal–”Eliot presses another drink into his hands.“Before we resort to felonies,” he stops Quentin’s rambling, taking a large drink of a flask he produces from under the cushions. “Why don’t we try something easier? How about you ask someone else to go with you?”Once again, Quentin’s brain freezes.*or, Thanksgiving is upon them and Quentin needs someone to bring home, Eliot is accidentally willing, and Julia is only in for the entertainment.





	no matter how they toss the dice

A group of first years rush out of the door, laughing and carrying their briefcases, nearly shoving Quentin out of the way in their hurry. He had spent the entire walk from the classroom to the cottage in a rush, wanting nothing more than to reach the living room to pass out in the nearest padded surface– hopefully the couch, but the fluffy carpet would do– but the pack of first years kind of stop him on his tracks because  _ what? _

 

His first thought leans toward some sort of magical mishap, which is valid, considering their track record, but the cottage is not on fire, and it’s  _ there–  _ he can’t believe he’s saying this, but Quentin is  _ glad  _ it’s there and he doesn’t have to search all over the campus for the building, how can that be a valid concern,  _ come on–  _ so honestly, he’s stumped.

 

Understandably, he walks in slowly, carefully checking each step, just in case something is lurking in the shadows.

 

Nothing jumps out, so Quentin deems the place safe enough to brave a little beyond the front door. The place is quiet, suspiciously so, and in the couch, he finds Eliot, stretched in the patch of sunlight filtering in like a cat.

 

“Is there– I mean, I ran in a bunch of first years just now and they were kind of in a rush?” Quentin half asks, glancing at the closed door because it’s better than let his eyes linger in the patch of skin exposed where Eliot’s shirt had lifted up. “Is there something going on? Should I be worrying?”

 

“Q,” Eliot says, blinking his eyes open to raise his eyebrows at Quentin and sitting up. There’s something about seeing Eliot in more casual clothes, without a vest, that is oddly warming, like he’s being allowed a privilege not often bestowed to the other peasants like Quentin. “Please tell me you haven’t forgotten what day tomorrow is.”

 

Quentin’s brain goes blank.

 

What day is tomorrow? What day is  _ today?  _ What even is time–  _ oh shit.  _ “Shit, tomorrow’s Thanksgiving.”

 

“How could you forget  _ Thanksgiving?”  _ He snickers, patting the seat beside him and Quentin sits down obediently. “Haven’t you noticed the fall themed decorations? Margo and I worked really hard on them, you know.”

 

“My last exam was an hour ago,” Quentin tries to defend himself, sinking into the cushions and accepting the drink Eliot passes him. It’s blue and sweet, and knowing Eliot, pretty strong too, so he sips it with care.

 

“I know, you whined about your tests ending only the day before Thanksgiving all week long,” is the amused reply.

 

_ Fuck.  _ Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving. Quentin had told his dad he’d be home for Thanksgiving. In fact, the last time Quentin had talked with his dad was at least two months ago and he had said a lot of things then.

 

Things like the last text he sent him, saying  _ yeah sure dad. _

 

A text that had been sent in reply to  _ why don’t you bring your special someone for Thanksgiving dinner? _

 

There had been a whole thing about his dad being worried about Quentin being alone and Julia not being there, and Quentin had been so fed up with his insistence that Quentin should call Julia up, tell her to come for dinner during the Holidays, that he had told his dad about Alice. Or, well,  _ i’m not alone, i’m dating. _

 

And he had been! He and Alice were still a thing, back then! 

 

Now, on the other hand– 

 

_ “Shit,”  _ Quentin whimpers, knocking back his drink and giving it back to Eliot so that he could bury his head on his hands. “This is bad, this is  _ so  _ bad.”

 

“O _ kay,”  _ Eliot clears his throat, and Quentin feels arms wrapping around his shoulder, “it sounds like there’s a story here.  Why don’t you start at the beginning and we’ll see what I can do?”

 

“No, don’t wanna,” he mumbles through his hands, fully aware of how muffled the words are coming out and how warm his cheeks feel,  _ damn it. _ “It’s embarrassing, you’re gonna laugh.”

 

Eliot tugs him closer and Quentin goes easily, sinking against his chest and reluctantly lowering his hands. “I would  _ never,”  _ Eliot starts, but amends quickly when Quentin gives him a  _ look,  _ “okay, I  _ would,  _ but. I promise I won’t make too much fun.”

 

To be fair, Quentin’s not too worried about Eliot teasing him, he doesn’t really mind it, not when he knows there’s no malice underneath it, when it’s just meant for Quentin to laugh along, it’s more like he was kind of hoping to keep at least  _ some  _ of his dignity around here and explaining this whole mess sounds  _ exhausting. _

 

“Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving,” he repeats, sighing.

 

“Yes, we have already established that,” Eliot counters patiently.

 

“I might have told my dad I’m dating and I’d bring them to dinner tomorrow,” Quentin says in a rush, wincing preemptively at the teasing that’s about to come.

 

Unsurprisingly, Eliot surprises him. “That’s easy, Alice isn’t back from her final yet, you still have time to ask her,” comes the flat reply.

 

“Eliot,” Quentin shifts to look at him, mimicking his tone from earlier, “Alice and I broke up, like, a month ago.”

 

“Oh, so you’re on the  _ off  _ phase,” he nods wisely, mockingly serious before waving him off. “Just apologize for whatever thing you did and proclaim your undying love like you always do and she’ll forgive you like she always does. Honestly, Q, I’m surprised you haven’t done it already.”

 

Quentin flails a little, feeling like he should be offended on their behalf as a couple but not sure on what part exactly. “That’s not– we’re not– nevermind,” he has to admit, his relationship with Alice  _ has  _ been an on and off thing since the beginning, “it’s for real this time–  _ I mean it!  _ I  _ don _ ’ _ t  _ want to get back together.”

 

They had talked last month, Alice and him.  _ I do love you,  _ he had said, sitting beside her in the front steps of the cottage,  _ I do, I’m just–  _

 

_ Not in love with me?  _ Alice had guessed, not looking as heartbroken as the first time they’d done this. If anything, there had been relief in the corners of her eyes, even if they were still sad.  _ I get that. I don’t think we have been in love for a long time now– it shouldn’t be this hard, I think. To be together. We have never been very good at this. _

 

Quentin had nodded, looking down at his hands.  _ What about, uh, friends? We’re good at that, I think. _

 

She had laughed, tucking her hair behind her ears, and smiled affectionately at him,  _ yeah, Q. We are. I love you too, you know, I still want you in my life.  _

 

And that had been that, mostly. It’s still kind of awkward, but they’re working on it and– it’s getting better. They  _ are  _ better at being friends. But that’s not exactly helpful right now. 

 

Because Quentin now has to tell his dad he’s not, in fact, dating anyone at the moment, and his dad will start worrying about him again, except his dad is in remission, he shouldn’t be worrying about anything, but he’ll worry about Quentin being all alone in some mysterious grad program that Quentin doesn’t even know what to tell him about, how to nitpick the facts and the illusions and how to translate to shit that won’t get him committed, and– 

 

“You don’t?” Eliot asks, sounding a little off, hoarse, and Quentin passes him his water bottle, shrugging when Eliot looks uncomprehendingly down at it. “What– okay,” He clears his throat, starts again. “So you’re over your ex, that’s good. I’m sure your father will understand.”

 

“Yeah, I mean– yeah, he’ll get it, but he’ll worry,” Quentin runs a hand through his hair, huffing, “he’ll  _ worry,  _ and he’ll start asking questions and  _ wondering–  _ El, what if he wants to visit? He can’t come to Brakebills! I’ll have to, I don’t know.  _ I don’t know.  _ Pretend to show him around Yale? Is that illegal– it sounds like it’s illegal–”

 

Eliot presses another drink into his hands.

 

“Before we resort to felonies,” he stops Quentin’s rambling, taking a large drink of a flask he produces from under the cushions. “Why don’t we try something easier? How about you ask someone else to go with you?”

 

Once again, Quentin’s brain freezes.

 

Then, it reboots and Quentin nearly cries with relief because  _ holy shit, this might not totally suck yet.  _ “You’re right,” he grins, laughing relieved, “you’re right, thank you!”

 

“I know, I know, I’m a gift to this world, now–”

 

“And like, my dad will totally like you–”

 

“I’m sorry,  _ what?”  _ Eliot cuts him off, not unkindly, pulling away to stare at Quentin with wide, confused eyes.

 

_ Shit.  _ “Oh, you’re not– you weren’t– sorry, it’s just,” Quentin backtracks, feeling his face heating up again in embarrassment, “I thought you were offering to. Go with me pretending to be dating?”

 

“You want  _ me  _ to pretend to be your boyfriend over Thanksgiving dinner so your father will stop asking questions,” Eliot’s eyebrows rise impressively high as he says it slowly, as if sounding it out, and  _ yeah,  _ it kind of sounds bad when you put it like that, but it’s not like Quentin’s got much of a choice here.

 

“Yes? But it’s fine if you don’t want to– I just  _ thought  _ but–”

 

“No, I’ll do it,” Eliot rushes out, immediately knocking back another large swing of his flask.

 

“Oh,” Quentin pauses. He fidgets with his glass, takes a sip. “Okay. Uh, thanks. I– are you sure?”

 

Eliot shrugs, waving off his hesitancy. “Of course. It’s not like I’ll be missing out on much during the break.”

 

That’s– Quentin’s pretty sure that’s a lie. He definitely heard Margo talking about a massive party in the cottage. Or maybe, New York? He wasn’t paying  _ that  _ much attention at the time, so.

 

“Okay,” he says, drumming his fingers against the side of the glass and feeling irrationally nervous. “Okay, then.”

 

*

 

_ “You did what?”  _

 

Quentin flinches at her tone, shrugging sheepishly. “I may have asked Eliot to be my fake boyfriend tomorrow?” He holds his hands up, “wait, wait! Look, I was under a lot of pressure and it seemed like a good idea at the time!”

 

“Q,” Julia sighs, dropping down on her bed beside him and giving up on packing her duffel bag. It’s stuffed with a lot of hard angles, so he guesses she must be taking a few books with her, even though she’s supposed to only spend one night in her sister’s place. “I love you, you know I do, but that’s dumb, even for you.”

 

“That’s– I’m offended,” he feels the need to announce, once again feeling unsure about how offended exactly he should be. “It’s not– it’ll be fine. Eliot and I are friends. It won’t be that different.”

 

Julia gives him a look. “You asked your crush to pretend to be your boyfriend,” she deadpans, “you’re right, I don’t see how that could possibly go wrong.”

 

“What? No, Eliot’s not– I mean, I don’t have– that’s crazy,” Quentin stumbles over his own thoughts, tripping on all the excuses he’s been telling himself these past weeks and tries to ignore how his heart kicks up a fuss on his chest. It would work, maybe, a little better if Quentin hadn’t fled the Cottage after talking with Eliot, feeling strangely unbalanced, and if it weren’t Julia looking at him with her patiently understanding eyes, like she knows the answer already, but she’s willing to wait for Quentin to catch up– as long as he cuts the bullshit, that is. “I may have a crush on Eliot,” he admits.

 

She pats his shoulder, smiling sympathetically down at him, and Quentin groans, falling back on the mattress. “It’s not so bad,” she consoles, “you’ll survive this dinner, I think.”

 

“I fucked up,” he tells her ceiling fan.

 

“A little, yeah,” Julia agrees, not one to sugarcoat things, “but you know what could make it better? Going back to the Cottage now and asking Eliot out for real.”

 

“Julia,” Quentin glares at her general direction, still too busy feeling sorry for himself to move, “that’s–  _ have you met him?  _ Why would he– besides, Eliot doesn’t  _ do  _ feelings.”

“Ooh, so you’re having  _ feelings  _ now, are you?” Her grin is slow and teasing, and he allows himself a moment to feel better, to quirk up his lips in response. “But seriously,  _ yes,  _ I have met him, and that’s exactly why I think you should do it.”

 

_ “Jules,  _ you know that’s not how he works.”

 

The tired way Julia shakes her head, squeezing his knee in comfort before resuming packing her things, is enough to tell him he’s missed something here. “Like you’re not an exception to his every rule,” is all else she says on the matter all evening long.

 

*

 

“You know Q,” Eliot says, adjusting his vest for the ninth time since they portaled to Quentin’s old childhood home on ‘burbs of New Jersey. He’s nervous, Quentin can see that, and a little voice whispers at the back of his head saying it’s because he likes him, but that voice sounds awfully like Julia and besides, of course Eliot is nervous. Quentin is coasting the edges of hysterical right now. This whole situation is stupidly crazy and it’s more than likely to backfire spectacularly in their face. In Quentin’s face. “This place is very suburban of you.”

 

“Yeah,” Quentin shrugs, giving him a sheepish half-grin, and rings the doorbell again. The sound of the television is drifting quietly from the living room window and Quentin idly wonders who’s winning the game. Then, because Julia had been giving him pointedly looks ever since they left Brakebills, he adds, “not really a, uh, fan of the white-picket-fence thing?”

 

Something flickers behind Eliot’s eyes, too quick for Quentin to identify, to catch anything beyond a shadow of a glimpse, and he tilts his head in an almost nod. “I guess it has its merits.”

 

Behind Eliot's shoulders, Julia rolls her eyes, silently sighing.

 

Her entire  _ done with this  _ demeanor is totally uncalled for and completely out of the deal they had made before she had dragged him back to the Physical Kids Cottage, tail between his legs and scurrying along the room’s walls. The main reason for Julia being here is– well, it’s because she’s his oldest and best friend in the world and he couldn’t picture a family dinner without her there, but that being said– to keep Quentin from getting in over his head with this.

 

Is it a bit pointless, now? A little too late?  _ Maybe,  _ but she had accepted her task with grace and only mild teasing.

 

“Quentin!” His father chooses that moment to open the door and  _ fuck,  _ does he look terrible. He’s better now, Quentin knows,  _ remembers  _ how bad it had gotten before, but  _ man.  _ Recovery is a long, winding road, he supposes. The look of fond, warm happiness is still the same, though, as he pulls Quentin into a hug. “It’s good to see you, Curly Q.”

 

“Good to see you too, Dad,” he says honestly. It’s been quite some time, ever since the chemo and appointments he missed, the hurt, betrayed look on his mother’s eyes for that and the sad understanding on his father’s.

 

This is not the time to feel guilty, though. More pressing matters here. For example, “so, Dad, these are, uh,” he flounders, second-guessing his entire plan, half-wishing to say  _ fuck it  _ and call off the whole thing, and thus flails, gesturing vaguely at Eliot and Julia.

 

“Eliot Waught, it’s a pleasure to finally meet you, sir,” Eliot steps forward, offering his hand for Quentin’s father to shake, and Quentin nearly weeps in either relief or desperation. There’s no going back now. They’re committed to the story. “Quentin told me quite a lot about you.”

 

“Ooh, the mysterious boyfriend,” his dad grins, thankfully shaking Eliot’s hand and only sending a slightly disapproving glance towards Quentin. “It’s good to be officially introduced, boy. I’d say likewise, but god knows he tells me nothing these days.”

 

“And Julia!” Quentin cuts in urgently, hoping to derail that particular line of conversation, “Jules’ here too, dad. And single! You should work on setting  _ her  _ up this time, for once?”

 

His dad snorts, shaking his head fondly before smiling at Julia. “Of course, how have you been, Julia?”

 

“Very good, Ted,” she politely returns the grin, not without subtly glaring at Quentin, the kind that totally went over people’s head but promised hell to pay later. That’s what he gets for throwing her under the bus, he supposes. “But you shouldn’t be too hard on him, it’s been a hell of a semester.”

 

“Ah, yes, in that equally mysterious school of yours,” he nods, mockingly solemn, and steps aside, eagerly waving them in. “Come on, the food is mostly ready and I’m missing the game, make yourselves at home.”

 

Julia takes the lead, making her way inside and into the living room with the practiced ease of someone who’s been there numerous times to know the layout of the house as if it were her own. Her swift exit seems to abruptly remind Eliot that the wine he’s been clutching was supposed to be a gift, so he clears his throat, offering it up to Quentin’s father with uncharacteristically stiff movements. “We’ve brought the wine, sir. I hope you like red?”

 

His dad’s eyebrows raise, clearly impressed. “Thank you, I do,” he takes the bottle, inspecting the label, “and it’s the good kind, too. I’m going to go ahead and assume you saved us from drinking cheap Walmart wine?”

 

“Oh, absolutely,” Eliot nods, following them into the living room where Julias has already made herself comfortable in the couch. “Q’s terribly hopeless on this, I’m afraid.”

 

Quentin’s dad laughs, clapping Eliot in the back, and Quentin breathes in relief.  _ This just might work,  _ he thinks, prays, and wraps a hand around Eliot’s wrists, tugging him to share the loveseat, while his dad trots back to the kitchen.

 

“Okay, we haven’t blown our cover yet,” Quentin whispers, not quite daring to be positive about this. There are still hours to go and plenty of chance for them to fuck up.

 

“I’d say we’re doing good,” Eliot says, voice hushed, leaning back against the cushion and draping an arm around Quentin’s shoulders and unknowingly making Quentin’s heart stutter. “But then again, ‘tis only the beginning.”

 

“Thanks, that’s very comforting,” he deadpans, rolling his eyes but breathing a bit easier.

 

“Guys, the  _ game,”  _ Julia shushes them at the same time Quentin’s father returns with two sets of beers and he almost feels bad for her when the television is put on mute.  _ Almost.  _ The despair in her eyes is real, and he lets himself feel slightly vindicated.

 

“So, boys,” his dad begins and Quentin is immediately on edge; nothing good’s ever followed  _ those  _ words with  _ that  _ tone. “How did you meet?”

 

It suddenly occurs to Quentin that they had not, in fact, discussed this. They had not discussed this  _ at all.  _ The extent of their discussion had been Quentin’s not very successful attempt at thanking Eliot and informing him what time they would be leaving today. After that, Eliot had disappeared somewhere with a vaguely pissed-looking Margo and Quentin hadn’t risked following or asking any questions; plausible deniability is, as always, his go-to response when questioned by any faculty members and it can only go so far, after all.

 

_ Now,  _ he kind of wants to punch himself.  _ What kind of morons doesn’t talk out the details?  _ Again, the voice in his head sounds annoyingly like Julia. 

 

Thankfully, while Quentin had been fumbling, Eliot coughs, then recovers. “At school, actually,” he says, and his voice, casually smooth as always, helps soothe Quentin’s nerves. “I was told to show him around campus on the day of his interview.”

 

_ Okay, sticking to the truth.  _ “Yeah, I, uh, was late to said interview, but Eliot still gave me the tour after. He was the first person I met there and my first friend too.”

 

“I was hoping he would get in,” Eliot tells them as if confessing an embarrassing secret, “from the time he stumbled through the gates, looking terribly lost and terribly late, I was already interested.”

 

Quentin should really look away, avert his gaze from Eliot’s earnest, bright eyes as he recounts the story of their first meeting coated with this lie that Quentin wants so desperately to be true. He should look away before he gets in over his head, before he starts  _ hoping,  _ before he starts believing. He should, but it’s too difficult, especially as Eliot continues, “and then, well. How could I stay away?”

 

At that, he turns a soft, besotted smile towards Quentin and Quentin kind of combusts in place, but it probably translates, for better or for worse, in the absolutely lovesick gaze he’s always giving Eliot anyway, just never while he’s looking like today. “I’m uh, yeah. It was– I couldn’t stay away either. It was like, I couldn’t imagine my life without him in it anymore.” He shrugs helplessly, finally managing to look away to find his dad grinning in an unapologetically amused grin and Julia giving him a knowing stare. 

 

Quentin ducks his head.

 

“See that, Ted?” Julia comes to his rescue, taking pity on him, “that’s the kind of lovey-dovey crap I have to deal with. I swear, they’re  _ always  _ this bad.”

 

“Don’t be jealous of our love, Julia,” Eliot sniffs loftily, pulling Quentin closer, “I’m sure you’ll find someone willing to go along some grand romantic gesture.”

 

Part of Quentin feels bad for snorting so loud, but even Julia has to admit that’s not really her own style. “Yeah, Jules. It’s your turn to suffer through the blind dates.”

 

“I’m perfectly fine on my own, thank you very much,” she huffs, not quite succeeding at hiding her snickers, more than likely remembering the string of increasingly disastrous dates that had plagued Quentin’s last years in college. 

 

Eliot hums in interest, glancing down at Quentin in delight. “That sounds like a story I’d want to hear.”

 

And because both Julia and his father look more than happy to share those particularly embarrassing stories, and  _ man,  _ there were many to choose from, Quentin abruptly stands up, insistingly tugging at Eliot to bring him with.  _ ‘Okay,”  _ he says loudly, “I think–  _ a tour!  _ I’m just going to show Eliot, uh, the house now. Come on, El.”

 

As he pushes an unabashedly laughing Eliot out of the room, babbling about showing him his old room upstairs, Quentin can still make out his dad telling Julia to  _ please, be a dear and get those albums under there? I think the baby pictures are in there. _

 

*

 

“Oh my god,” Quentin groans, leaning against the door and closing his eyes for a second to just  _ breathe.  _ “Oh my god.”

 

Eliot’s snickers, sitting down on Quentin’s bed with the same disregard as always, like this is Quentin’s tiny bedroom in the Cottage. Except it’s obviously not, and Eliot is aware of that– so,  _ so,  _ terribly aware of that since he’s examining the bedside table with way too much interesting. “Oh,  _ Q,”  _ he says in a tone that makes Quentin immediately bury himself in the ground ‘cause his next words are definitely going to be embarrassing for Quentin. “Don’t tell me these are  _ bangs?” _

 

“Fuck off,” he tries, moving to rip the framed picture from his hands, but Eliot easily evades him, holding it out of reach, “I had an emo phase, so what, how is that still any surprise considering the  _ everything  _ about me.”

 

“No, no, I never said I was  _ surprised,”  _ Eliot pats his head, patronizingly smiling down at him because Eliot is a  _ dick.  _ “I’m merely enjoying how embarrassing this is for you.”

 

“You’re a dick,” he feels the need to inform him, but it falls flat just like it always does, because Eliot knows Quentin never means it half as much as he barks, and Quentin frowns, giving up and flopping down on the mattress, finding Eliot studying the photo with an unreadable expression. “That’s my mom,” he points, smiling a little as he remembers the day this particular picture was taken. It was his sixteenth birthday, he thinks, and she had driven down from D.C. to spend the day with him. It had been a good day in a sea of bad ones, so when Julia had handed it framed to him that Christmas, it had never left his bedside table. 

 

“She seems lovely,” Eliot says, carefully putting it back on its place, then adds, “and so does your father.”

 

“Yeah, they’re– they try,” he shrugs a little awkwardly, aware that while his relationship with his parents is complicated, it’s a very different case of  _ complication  _ than Eliot’s. “It’s better now, I think.”

 

Eliot nods. “I’m glad,” he lets a pause drag for another minute before continuing, “but just so you know, I, for one, can’t wait to see those baby pictures.”

 

Torn between laughing and groaning, Quentin ends up making a strangled sound and halfheartedly hitting Eliot with his pillow. “This was a terrible idea.”

 

“Honestly? It really was,” Eliot pats his head again, unashamedly grinning when Quentin glares, “but half of our ideas are terrible, it would be weird if this were any different.”

 

“Hey,” Quentin says, seriously, “if at any point you want to back out, or I don’t know, get uncomfortable– we call this off, okay?”

 

Something passes through Eliot’s face again before he nods, answers, “okay, Q. Needless to say, it goes the same for you, yeah?”

 

“Yup. Now come on,” he stands up, smoothing out his shirt as best as he can. If he goes out all wrinkled like this, Julia is  _ definitely  _ getting ideas and that’s– Quentin is already fucked, alright? No need to add more fuel to the fire. “I promised you a tour.”

 

“About that, you should know,” Eliot comments, brushing invisible dust from his clothes and looking impeccable as ever, “a good tour always  _ ends  _ in the bedroom.”

 

In the second it takes him to get to the door, Quentin prays to a god he doesn’t really believe in to help him survive the night because  _ holy shit,  _ he’s not gonna make it on his own.

 

*

 

One thing Quentin is grateful for is his dad’s total disregard to the tradition of listing shit you’re grateful for this year. Like, the second he sets the store-made turkey down on the table and tells them to start digging, Quentin couldn’t be more relieved because  _ seriously,  _ that had the potential to turn embarrassing  _ fast  _ and he’s already embarrassed himself enough as it is.

 

All in all, things are going better now, smoother, and the food is great, even. Sure, it’s nothing too fancy, but the mashed potatoes kind of remind Quentin of  _ home  _ in a way his own tentative tries in the kitchen never do and it’s been so long since he actually sat down with his dad without some impending doom lurking in the background, it’s–  _ weird,  _ but the good kind, he thinks.

 

And on the subject of things that are strange and shouldn’t work but weirdly  _ do,  _ Quentin is trying very hard not dwell too much on how not weird it is to have Eliot here. He stands out in the painfully ordinary suburban kitchen, obviously, with his expansive clothes and his  _ Eliot- _ ness that seems more fitting of a throne room, and he and Quentin’s dad are threading the most shallow waters in conversation because neither is too sure they’d actually get on otherwise, but they’re both trying for Quentin’s sake and that’s– that’s another thing Quentin is decidedly not thinking about.

 

Note to self: when Julia says something is incredibly stupid,  _ listen to her. _

 

“So, kids,” his dad starts again and Quentin wilts in his chair, “how is this university of yours going?

 

“Great,” coughs Julia, choking on her wine.

 

“Terrible,” says Eliot, at the same time.

 

“What university,” blurts Quentin, immediately, because fuck his life, he guesses.

 

Quentin’s father, used to Julia and Quentin being weird as fuck, only raises his eyebrows amusedly, probably figuring Eliot must be on the same brand of  _ secretly a nerd disaster _ like Julia and that’s how Quentin managed this miracle.

 

“What we mean,” Eliot tries to salvage, drinking a healthy dose of wine first, “is that, of course, Julia thinks it’s great, she’s dazzling her professors left and right. Us poor mortals are left suffering at the library day and night.”

 

“Terrible,” Quentin echoes, nodding along and stuffing his face with the mashed potatoes to avoid answering anything else.

 

“That is true,” Julia agrees readily, thankful for the chance to cover their slip up, “so much dazzling. I love books. And political science.”

 

“Of course,” his dad gives her a weird look, but doesn’t call her out, taking the opportunity to direct his questioning towards Eliot, “and what about you, son, are you in the Literature program with these two?”

 

In one moment of clarity and dissociation, Quentin notices distantly that he has no idea what major Eliot had been before Brakebills.

 

“Arts Department, actually,” he answers mildly, “theater and drama, mostly.”

 

That’s. That makes a lot of sense, to be honest.

 

After that, dinner devolves unexpectedly into dissecting the merits of old Broadway plays that Quentin had no idea his dad had ever seen or that Julia had even known about, but as it turns out everyone has a lot of opinions on, especially after a couple more glasses of wine.

 

It’s so different from the awkward, stunted nightmare Quentin had been picturing last night, he’s left reeling on his seat, watching his, well,  _ family,  _ argue good-naturedly and it’s like staring at a surrealist painting. It certainly makes him  _ feel  _ things.

 

*

 

“Q,” his dad stops him after dinner, just as he’s starting to clear out the table, balancing two plates and a bowl on his hands. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

 

His tone is serious, but not deadly so, or disappointed-serious. Just serious. And Julia quickly picks up on the  _ alone,  _ steering Eliot away with a murmured  _ come on, we can smoke in the back. _

“Is something wrong?” Quentin can’t help asking, anxiety creeping in at the edges and curving long nails on blackboard at the back of his mind.

 

“No, no, nothing like that,” his dad reassures him, resuming their chore and sliding plates in the dishwasher. “I just wanted to tell you how proud I am.”

 

_ Oh god,  _ Quentin was wrong. This  _ is  _ one of those sorts of conversations. He’s so not prepared for this, both Eliot and Julia would never let him live it down if he starts crying. “Dad, I–”

 

“No, don’t worry, I’m pretty much finished, I know you hate these conversations,” he laughs a little, clasping Quentin in the back and then resting a hand on his shoulder, “but really. I am proud of you, Curly Q. I was worried at first when they told me you were at this mysterious, elite grad school, but I can see now that you’re doing fine.”

 

Nodding awkwardly, Quentin swallows thickly. 

 

“And for what is worth it, I’m glad you have that boyfriend of yours. You should hold on to that one, son. The way he looks at you and you look at him– you don’t find that sort of love twice.”

 

Blindsided once again by this conversation, Quentin is struck speechless. He hadn’t imagined they would be this good at pretending, but well. Eliot  _ is  _ an actor, as it turns out,  _ maybe;  _ he did not clarify on that, exactly. And Quentin  _ is  _ stupidly in love with Eliot.

 

It makes sense his father would say that, then, in a sad, depressing sort of way.

 

“Thanks, dad,” Quentin manages to stutter out, hesitating his way into a brief hug before scurrying away to the backyard, desperate to flee this talk and all its implications.

 

Outside, he gets the tail end of Julia and Eliot’s own whispered conversation, and Quentin can’t really make out what they’re talking, but Julia is shaking her head and gesturing like she’s frustrated to no ends and Eliot is smoking in that careless way that can only mean he’s, in fact, very stressed. 

 

Fun talks all around, it seems. What a wonderful Thanksgiving, everyone.

 

“Everything okay?” He offers as he ventures outside, braving the cold weather, and all talk immediately seizes.  _ Great,  _ this isn’t triggering his anxiety or anything, of course not. “Guys?”

 

“Everything’s fine, Q,” Julia says, getting to her feet and brushing the dirt from her jeans. She gives Eliot a pointed look before smiling at Quentin. “I’m going to go call my sister. Remember what I said, yeah?” As she walks past him, she squeezes his shoulder in a warm, comforting gesture.

 

Quentin frowns, looking at the now-closed backdoor and then at Eliot, still smoking silently on the steps to the back yard. “El?” He asks tentatively, sitting beside him, close enough to feel the warmth rolling off him– so, so tempting to lean in the rest of the way, rest his head on Eliot’s shoulder.

 

In another world, perhaps.

 

“Sorry,” Eliot shakes his head minutely, gaze fixed on the dark sky above as the smoke of his cigarette rises up towards the clouds. “I shouldn’t have said yes to do this, I should have known it would kill me before we were through.”

 

Quentin’s heart seizes up. “What? Why? Did anyone– did my dad say something?” Then, a thought flits through his mind.  _ Oh god.  _ “Did  _ Julia  _ say anything?”

 

Eliot snorts, but it doesn’t sound particularly funny. “Julia said a lot of things alright,” and his lips quirk up in that half-smile that means he doesn’t want to smile at all. “But that’s not it. It’s not completely fair of me to have volunteered, you see.”

 

“But you didn’t volunteer,” Quentin frowns deeper, trying to make sense of this sudden turn in the night. Well, to be fair, he had noticed Eliot falling quieter as dinner wrapped up, but when Quentin had squeezed his hand under the table in support, Eliot had smiled. Quentin had thought that was that, that the helplessness in his eyes had gone away and not just hidden behind the curtains. “I  _ asked  _ you to do this.”

 

“Okay, I see you’re missing some key information here, but that’s nothing particularly new,” Eliot says wryly, and a bit of the twinkle in his eyes return for one brief second. “So I’m gonna spell it out for you. Be warned, there’s no going back from this. Last chance to stick to the status quo, are you sure you want to know?”

 

He nods wordlessly, mouth going dry.

 

Looking away at the sky again, Eliot heaves a sigh as if steeling himself for a great battle. “Alright. Ready? Good. I’m in love with you, Q, and pretending this only make-believe is entirely too much,” he says it like it’s easy, like it’s some fundamental law of the universe, unchangeable and everlasting, like Quentin’s entire world isn’t rearranging itself on its axis, like reality isn’t being painted over with different, brighter colors. “Embarrassing, I know. Me, having feelings– what a ludicrous concept! And yet. We truly are all fools in love, I suppose.”

 

_ “You’re in love with me?”  _ Quentin repeats, echoes, parrots the words back, unable to string anything cohesive together on his own, not totally convinced this isn’t some elaborate hallucination. “Like, for real?  _ You  _ are in love with  _ me?” _

 

“Yes, Q,” Eliot agrees, amused in a resigned sort of way, like things are going accordingly to script, but it’s a very lousy script. “I am foolishly in love with you.”

 

His mind is still fuzzy with static and Quentin can’t do much more than gape; he needs time to reboot his system fully after this. Eliot– aloof, beautiful, caring, amazing Eliot– is  _ in love  _ with Quentin.

 

What do you say when the thing you want most in the world is offered to you? 

 

How do you accept something you do not deserve?

 

Apparently, in silence, with actions, and your own heart in your sleeves.

 

_ You take that leap of faith. _

 

Quentin smiles, and jumps off the edge. He kisses Eliot– by surprise, tasting red wine on his tongue, and apple pie, and expensive tobacco, and hopes Eliot understands this is a trade, no one has to leave with a hole in their chest:  _ here, my heart for yours,  _ it says.

 

“Is it still foolish if I’m in love with you too?” He asks against his mouth, eyes closed and ribcage wide open, “because El, I’m so fucking in love with you, it’s kind of ridiculous.”

 

“Oh, Q,” Eliot whispers back, hands cupping his face with a gentleness that aches somewhere deep in Quentin’s chest, and none of the melancholic resignation from before.  “Love makes fool of us all. But that’s okay, I don’t mind as long as it’s you.”

 

Leaning in, Eliot kisses him again and it’s still breathtaking, heart-stopping, deliciously addictive, and Quentin wishes upon every celestial body up in the sky to allow  _ this  _ to be the start of the rest of his life.

 

*

 

Julia knocks on the door first before opening it, playfully covering her eyes with a hand, Quentin’s dad not far behind. “Hey, lovebirds, are you decent? Is it safe for me to open my eyes?”

 

“Yes, Jules,” Quentin rolls his eyes half-heartedly, too content to be anywhere near annoyed, “very funny. Is it time to leave yet?”

 

“Yeah, Mackenzie’s waiting for me.  _ Yay fun,”  _ she fake cheers, dryly sarcastic. There’s a reason she spent so much time in Quentin’s place as a kid after all. “Mercy kill me, please.”

 

“Tell your sister I said hello, would you?” His dad snorts, holding the door open for them to get back inside. “And try to remember to visit your old father every once in a while, how about that?”

 

Quentin, hand tightly clasped in Eliot’s, grins. “Sure, dad,” and tonight has gone so well, beyond expectations in so many ways, it’s easy to add: “how about lunch tomorrow?”

 

“I would like that very much, Q,” he smiles, resting a hand on his shoulder, then looks over at Eliot to the side, “and you’re always welcome to tag along, you hear?”

 

“Thank you, Mr. Coldwater,” Eliot smiles charmingly, winning Quentin’s heart all over again, “I’ll keep it in mind. And thank you for having me here tonight.”

 

Quentin’s father snorts, waving that off heartily. He accompanies them to the door and thankfully believes when they say Eliot’s car is parked one block over because Quentin isn’t sure what kind of excuse he would come up to explain why they had to walk out of sight.

 

There’s something painfully familiar in walking away from this house, this lawn, this curb and watching his father’s figure disappearing his line of sight.

 

What is not familiar is Julia’s wolf whistling as soon as they’re out of earshot and wiggling her eyebrows at their still intertwined fingers. “Someone pulled their heads out of their asses, is that what I’m seeing here?”

 

“Don’t be jealous of our love,” Eliot sniffs haughtily, drawing Quentin even closer, “we are in the honeymoon phase and thus allowed to be as disgustingly cute as possible.”

 

“Right, right,” she laughs, moonlight reflecting off her hair like pearls, “it was about damn time, honestly.”

 

“Why are you like this?” Quentin groans, resisting the urge to bury his head on Eliot’s neck.

 

“It’s a gift and a burden, to be this wise beyond my years.”

 

“Well, Miss Wisdom,” Eliot snorts, letting go of Quentin so they could work on opening the portal back to Brakebills. “How about you get us back, then?”

 

“Fine, I’ll take the lead,” Julia allows with a tilt of her head, “but only if you both have to help me bribe Penny into giving me a ride to D.C.”

 

“Deal,” he says solemnly, and Quentin kinda loves them for getting along– they are the two most important people in his life and he’s not sure what he’d do if they hated each other.

 

But here, in this life, that’s not something he has to worry about, and Quentin has to bite his lip not to laugh out loud on how ridiculous it is that it took some big, elaborate scheme for them to be brave enough to take a chance. 

 

It’s fitting, in a way.

 

Not that it matters either. Quentin is sure they would have found each other, one way or another. Somethings, and some people, are just like that– meant to be in the same story.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> okay, if you liked this, you can always come talk to me or send me a prompt on [my tumblr.](https://rad-hoodd.tumblr.com)
> 
> and hey? thanks.


End file.
